The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “Shouldn’t we go? We will not be seen.”

  A second surprise. Puck was not usually so sensible. Tom just nodded, stepped back into the tunnel and watched the fay wiggle through and disappear.

  “A scout?” Brega was given an unnatural halo by Dank’s sprite, hovering by her head.

  “Assuming he comes back.” No doubt Puck would find it very amusing to leave them waiting for hours.

  “He will.”

  She spoke with too much certainty. “Puck is unpredictable.” Tom stared into her eyes, willing her to understand him. “If you think you know him, it’s because he’s letting you see only one side of him. Then, one day, he will show you another side. That can end in bloodshed as easily as laughter.”

  He couldn’t see her eyes but she could hear the smile in her voice. “Concern? For me?”

  “We do not always see eye-to-eye,” he said. “But you don’t deserve to fall foul of Puck.”

  “That’s sweet.” She was amused. Laughing at him. But she reached out and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Rymour. I can handle men.”

  “Puck is no man.”

  She shrugged. “Close enough.” She nodded after the fay. “Some like their women soft, sweet and demure. That one likes his women bawdy, rude and dangerous.”

  “He likes them running and screaming too.” Puck took particular delight in taunting and torturing mortals who didn’t have the Second Sight. Who couldn’t defend themselves against their invisible assailant.

  “He does. But if he sees I would only do that towards him with a sword in my hand, he will not threaten me.”

  “Or he’ll take it as a challenge.”

  “Trust me, Tom. A woman learns how to read men if she wants to stay safe.” There was something tight and hard in her voice and Tom almost asked how she had learnt that lesson. But she wouldn’t appreciate it. Of all things, Brega wanted her privacy respected.

  Something blocked the light. “Ho ho ho,” the shadow murmured. “Do we feel our ears burning?”

  Tom looked at Dank. Had Puck heard their conversation with the boy’s ears? But Dank shrugged so Tom said to Puck, “Is it safe?”

  “A rather silly word for where we are,” he grumbled. His shadow disappeared and said no more.

  “I think that’s as close to a ‘yes’ as we’ll ever get,” Tom muttered.

  As he squeezed his way through the gap, Tom understood how it could be overlooked; the rock twisted and turned so much you would think it only a crack in the rock, not an entrance to a tunnel. It was so artfully hidden he had the absurd feeling it had been manufactured. Then he was through and out and free.

  Tartos Valley was drenched in sunrise, warm for the time of year, the air still. Quiet too; there were no incidental sounds of wildlife, no sounds of work or talk. The only thing that filled the air was the hum of magic. Strong magic. But not the diffuse shimmer of Faerie. Here it was pointed, like a knife.

  That put him on guard, belied the beauty of the landscape. Behind him was a sheer rock cliff, but before him was rolling grass, peppered with trees, a river lazing its way from end to end. He could see one end of the valley, the ground climbing up in grass and tree and rock. The north end was obscured by early morning fog, not yet burned away by the low sun.

  That was where the magic was focused. That was where the dragons would be.

  “Rymour.”

  Brega was pointing at something caught on the rock of the tunnel exit: a tiny snag of red thread.

  “Six?” she asked.

  He nodded. But it seemed impossible that he could have found this path, even with Katharine’s skill. Without Herne, they would have been lost in the dark.

  But it wasn’t coincidence. “We need to move.” He set off at a jog, ignoring the pain in his ankle. But already he was exhausted. The journey had taken them all night and he was stiff and sore. The grass looked good enough to sleep on.

  “Rymour.” Brega again. She was jogging alongside but she put a hand on his arm. Enough to stop him. “Caution. Who knows who’s watching?”

  Before he could reply, the valley echoed with a scream. A dragon scream. He flinched despite himself and even Brega seemed to pale. Tom reached for Caledyr. It would do no good if a dragon dropped out of that fog. But it would make him feel better.

  But even the sword seemed to feel it. Dragon, it thought. Dragon.

  So much for comfort. But after the scream there was nothing and the valley was quiet again.

  “I think if there are any eyes in this valley,” Tom said, “they’ll be on the skies.”

  But nonetheless they sought cover, slipping through trees, creeping through undergrowth, crouching behind boulders. Boulders that were scorched. But Tom found it more unsettling to see Puck keep a low profile. Wouldn’t he be invisible and invulnerable to any attack?

  The rising sun began to burn away the fog, revealing the end of the valley, which was covered in buildings and other constructions, and much further away than Tom had thought.

  “Is that where we need to go?” Brega asked.

  “I think so.”

  “What’s our plan?”

  “I don’t have one,” he admitted. He touched the sword again. Dragon. “I was hoping we’d catch them before we got that far.”

  She snorted. “Have you ever owned a dog?”

  The question threw him but, despite himself, he looked at Puck, who was crawling behind Tom’s feet, eyes on the sky. “Yes.”

  “Some dogs come when their master whistles. Some dogs do the whistling.”

  Tom nodded, but then he said, “I don’t understand.”

  “You let events whistle,” she replied. “You run in their wake and clean up their messes.”

  He shook his head. “These events are bigger than I am. A king won’t come if I whistle.”

  She took her eyes off the sky to smile at him. But she said nothing.

  The ground dropped away ahead, the river becoming faster and noisier as it rushed to the edge. There would be some kind of climb down to the bottom and the very thought made Tom’s limbs feel heavy. His head ached. The wound in his flank throbbed. Why did Six and Katharine have to do this? Why couldn’t they accept his judgement? No, they had to run off. They knew best. Six the Westerner, and Katharine the worldly Pathfinder. He was just little old Tom. What did his opinion matter?

  But his burgeoning bad mood was forgotten when he looked over the edge of the cliff.

  The waterfall poured into a lake, and a dragon drank from its edge.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. They should retreat, get out of sight, only he couldn’t take his eyes off the beast. “Stay calm.” But his hands were shaking. The roar of the waterfall was deafening, except it was the roar of his blood in his ears.

  Dragon. Dragon.

  Was it the same one? The one from Cairnalyr? It looked the same size, same colour. It finished drinking and lifted its head, staring at the water. Reflection. It could see them reflected in the lake. They should run. They should hide.

  It chirped and darted its head into the water, once, twice. A school of fish swam away and the dragon watched them go, before shaking its head and preening.

  It hadn’t seen them. He could breathe again.

  But as it walked away he looked up, across the valley, and saw more of them. One lying in the sun, sleeping. One halfway up the cliff-face, hanging there, as if it had been climbing but forgotten why. And two were fighting, one flapping its wings while the other hugged the ground and let out a submissive squeal.

  Five dragons. Five.

  Where were the chains? Where were the guards, the keepers? Why weren’t they in cages?

  He only realised he’d spoken aloud when Dank said, “They don’t need them.” He spoke in a whisper, awed, a slight and wild smile on his lips.

  “How do you know?” Brega demanded.

  “Because we know.”

  Brega began to ask questions but Tom didn’t listen. Five dragons. How could they get past fi
ve dragons? Had Six and Katharine? Or were their burnt bones somewhere down there?

  “Did they go down there?” By the tone of Brega’s voice, it was the second time she’d asked.

  “Um.” Tom looked down. The two fighting dragons were puffing flame now. The one on the cliff-face was watching and screeching at its fellows. “Yes,” he said. Of course they had. Even if Katharine had reservations, Six would have been too curious to be afraid. And too eager to destroy the magic that bound those dragons. Or the record of that magic, at least.

  “Then we go down too?”

  “We don’t know if they survived,” he said. The fighting dragons were screeching, chirping, snapping at each other. None of them seem bothered by the fire they spat, as if they didn’t even feel it. Somehow that made them seem all the more frightening. “And if they did, it doesn’t mean we will.”

  She nodded. He wanted to tell her that she was of better use to Neirin alive. Because she would retreat, and then Tom could retreat too. It was cowardly. But it would be madness to go down there. He’d barely escaped with his life the last time he’d met a dragon.

  His vision faded into another scene, a scene shaded by trees, with a dragon staring down at him.

  “You are either brave or foolhardy, little elf, to come so close.”

  The foresight faded and Tom blinked. He looked down. Those trees. There, that copse near the two that were fighting. That was where he had seen himself.

  “We’ll be spotted,” Brega said. “And there’ll be no escape.”

  He wanted to agree. And he could; it would be true. But he had seen himself down there. As much as he wished he hadn’t.

  Something nudged his hand and he looked down to see Puck at his feet. Puck nuzzled his head under Tom’s hand and sat while Tom scratched. The only word for his expression was forlorn. Like a sad dog. He’d never seen Puck like this.

  “What are you worried about?” It sounded harsher than he’d meant it to.

  But if the fay heard the edge to Tom’s voice, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Dragonfire hurts, Tom.”

  Their way down was half path, half climb. But, unlike the last climb, it was neither sheer nor wet, and Herne wasn’t waiting at the bottom in the dark. Tom had worried a dragon would spot them, leap into the air and burn them off the rock. But each of the beasts seemed to be watching the fight now, which neither escalated nor dissipated. Both combatants seemed content to snap, to spread their wings and screech, to puff flame. But with attention diverted, it made their progress easier.

  The terrain was too open on the ground. Brega took their path as close to the cliff-face as possible. But Tom felt exposed. Sometimes there was sparse growth, bushes and such, but too often there was nothing between them and the dragons but open field.

  The dragon hanging from the cliff-face leapt into the air, flapped furiously, but fell to the ground on the other side of the copse, out of sight. Still, they froze, barely breathing, for what seemed like hours.

  But the fight continued, and all the other dragons watched. One even settled down, stretching out on the grass, spreading its wings under the sun. If Tom hadn’t been so scared, he’d have felt jealous; it looked warm and comfortable and relaxed.

  The valley forced them closer to the fight and their progress grew slower and slower. Part of him wanted to run, to get past as quickly as possible. Another part wanted to stop, to freeze and never move again. He struck a compromise, taking small and careful steps, avoiding any noise whatsoever.

  Then the fight began to move.

  Somehow he didn’t notice to begin with. It was only when the lying dragon got up that he noticed it was moving away from the trees, towards the lake. It was too much luck to believe and yet too much to question. As the fight moved, so did the spectators, turning or moving to get a better view. And they had a clear path to the trees. Shelter, shade, cover.

  An encounter with a dragon.

  Brega said nothing, only pointed, and Dank moved to follow. He wanted to warn them. He wanted to whisper, ‘Wait, if we go there a dragon will see us.’ But he kept seeing the dragon in Cairnalyr, dropping out of the sky, claws out, making that terrible booming cry. His neck ached and his breath was shaky.

  The fight had moved into the lake and was growing louder. Despite knowing what was coming, Tom couldn’t help but watch. Water sprayed as wings slapped the surface, flames erupted or quenched in steam. But no teeth came close to flesh. It was almost like each was trying to outdo the other in spectacle rather than cause any harm.

  Finally they reached the shadow of the trees, tall, thin things, set far apart but with branches that stretched far. Two figures were backing towards them, backs bent, arms outstretched either side. Six and Katharine.

  And before them was the other dragon. Squeezing its way between tree trunks. Head low. Mouth open. Hissing.

  Brega swore in elfish.

  Puck hid behind Tom.

  Dank went even paler than usual.

  “The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul before death.” He drew Caledyr, for what little use it could do. And as soon as he touched the blade, one mantra tried to drown out his own.

  Dragon. Dragon. Dragon.

  Then the beast stopped its advance, ceased its hissing, and closed its mouth.

  Katharine and Six didn’t stop their retreat until Katharine bumped into Dank and cried out.

  “Quiet,” Six hissed, then turned to see them standing behind. He swore. “Get down,” he told them. “Spread your arms. Don’t make eye contact.”

  Brega did as she was told and Tom followed suit. The sword was heavy in his outstretched hand but he was loath to drop it. But Dank kept his eyes on the dragon’s, his back straight, and took a step forward.

  “Dank!” Six hissed, grabbing hold of him.

  The boy slapped Six aside. “Unhand me.” He spoke with a voice Tom didn’t recognise, deep, ancient. It seemed to echo inside the boy, seemed too big for him.

  And it spoke in the singular. Me.

  Dank took another step forward, out of reach, and the dragon ducked its head, regarding the boy with a single, great golden eye. Then it turned to Six, and so did Dank.

  “You are either brave or foolhardy, little elf, to come so close,” the boy said.

  “Tom, tell him he’ll die if he doesn’t do as I say,” Six said. He was staring at the ground as if he hoped it would swallow him. Anything to take him away from here.

  But the dragon showed little interest in Dank. No, not little; none. It looked over him, past him, as if he were not of their party. And Dank himself was stood to one side, facing the dragon, head turned towards them. Just as Sir Wrothsley had stood by Duke Regent’s side when the duke had received guests. Dank stood as the underling, the loyal attendant to the dragon.

  “None of you will die today,” Dank said.

  “For Oen’s sake, will you just do as I say?”

  “You little golden elfs do enjoy the sound of your own voices,” Dank said. The dragon’s eye turned to Brega and Tom. “Your friends seem to know how to listen.”

  Then the eye fell on Caledyr. “Ah,” Dank said. “The sword.” He said it sadly, with regret, as if something wonderful had come to an end. “I have always known when this day would come and yet, now it is here, I wish it had not.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brega snapped, full of fear and impotent anger.

  The eye shifted to her. “And another elf. An Easterner.” The dragon took a deep, satisfied breath. “I have not seen those skies in many a decade.”

  “It’s not Dank,” Tom realised. “It’s the dragon. The dragon is talking to us.”

  A satisfied rumble echoed inside the beast. “Through your Faerie friend.” The mighty head lowered to Tom’s level, staring at him, hot breath washing over him. “It has been so long since we have talked like this.”

  Tom lowered his arms and sheathed Caledyr. “Well met.” He was talking to a dragon. Talking. To a dragon
. “My name is Thomas Rymour. What is yours?”

  The dragon chirped and Dank laughed. “Well met, Thomas Rymour. But I have no need of a name. It is a thing for those with language.”

  “You don’t have language?” Then how was it speaking?

  The dragon opened its mouth, revealing teeth as tall as Tom’s head. Its breath smelt of fish. “We are beyond such concerns.”

  Tom nodded. It was no harder to accept than a talking dragon. “Incredible,” he said, and lifted a hand to touch the snout.

  “I am no dog for you to pet,” it snapped.

  Tom dropped his hand. “Of course.” He bowed his head. “I meant no offence.”

  Dank’s tone softened. “No matter.” The dragon lifted its head, exposing its neck and the thin, silvery band around it. “Once you have been caged as I have, offence is of little matter.”

  Despite himself, Tom looked back at Six. The elf was staring, slack-jawed. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Of course you don’t.” The dragon dropped a withering scowl on Six. “You little elfs can’t comprehend anything that you don’t understand.”

  “I understand,” Six said, and in a flash the dragon had him, a folded wing lashing out, a little claw pinning Six to the ground. The head snapped forward and the dragon hissed, all glittering teeth and scales.

  “Do not take me for a dim-witted creature, little elf,” Dank growled. He stepped forward, looking down at Six, who gasped for air and tried to pry claws off his chest. “Of the two of us, one has knowledge of a tiny mortal sphere, a grain of sand on an endless beach. And one of us soars along the coastline, seeing all things, in both directions.” Dank bent his legs, crouching by Six’s head. “I have little interest in the prattling of a grain of sand.”

  The elf shook his head. “I knew,” he said, short of air. “I knew you were intelligent.”

  “I know what you thought you knew.” The dragon hissed again, maw gaping wider. Saliva dripped onto Six’s face. “Did I not say I saw all things?”